


Forgive Never Forget

by JackTheLongsword



Category: Castle Rock (TV), Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Doctor Sleep - Stephen King, Dreamcatcher - Stephen King, KING Stephen - Works, Original Work, Pet Sematary - Stephen King
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Horror, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inspired By American Horror Story, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:20:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26019445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackTheLongsword/pseuds/JackTheLongsword
Summary: A collection of short-fiction inspired by Stephen King.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

The off-duty street cop was only slightly intoxicated when he arrived at the crime scene. Luckily none of his superior officers paid enough attention to him to notice. No, if he was called in it was one of the wierd ones. Those asshats had more than enough to deal with on their own. He had gotten a call from a buddy he had in the Forensics Department. The former fling gave him a location and he was off his houseboat and in his car racing to yet another murder scene. This particular homicide case was most certainly a strange happening. The Coroner's Office would later tell him even more on just how strange. It was above Frank's paygrade but he was able to get access to the scene regardless of his low rank on the force. The security detail called him a Bottom Feeder and a dirtbag but let him pass anyway. Nobody cared in Castle Rock. The two detectives who were supposed to be working the Betty Miller Case were both at a strip club ignoring their smartphones.

The rain had most likely washed away a good majority of evidence. If any was even left behind to speak of, that is. What was potentially damaging to the Unsub was long gone. Things like shoe prints or the Unsub's blood would be inadmissible. Betty Miller, sixteen, and high like a bat out of hell when she died. However the heroin she chose to pump in her veins had not been the cause of her death. A contributor, maybe, but the rookie street cop wasnt convinced. All over Castle Rock animals had been turning up dead. Now this. It wasn't no mindless coincidence.

Frank Smith had his own theories. He thought it was the emergence of a serial killer. On the cusp of going on a spree in his belief. He made this deduction from what the local vet had told him. The animal doctor was a drinking buddy of his.


	2. 1957: End of Summer

The drifter had finally found a cheap enough motel to fit the budget of a poor man's pocket. It was the start of September in Maine. Normally the young man would be in school. However he had graduated last year. The summer had brought a series of unfortunate events. Bunch of oddjobs as well. The long hitchhiking trek along the highway had landed him in Jerusalem's Lot, Maine. A small town not far from his latest destination had made for a good rest over night. It was also as far as the last car he'd hitched a ride in A job offer in Castle Rock had brought him out from Florida. The drifter was born in a lonesome town not unlike this one. Except in Knockemstiff, Ohio everyone knew his name and hated him for it. 

Out here in Jerusalem's Lot nobody knew his name; the drifter liked it much better that way.

A name could have a lot of weight attached to it. The drifter for example, was a fugitive, on his name was three seperate murders. In total he had killed five people. All of the kiling was done in self-defense. Of course the police didn't know this and so the radio broadcasting in this state hadn't said a peep about the drifter. All the fuss had been about the rainstorm that may or may not be brewing a tornado. The rain had been getting stronger all day. As the drifter looked out his window he watched as the dense sheet bounced of the ground a couple inches upon arrival. The dancing sound on the roof of the motel calmed his nerves. The cracked ceiling was leaking in two places. The drifter stood vigilant at the window. On the lookout for the housekeeper who was suppose to bring him two buckets, more towels, a package of cigarettes and a bottle of the cheapest beer they had. It had been a long day for the drifter who had walked the duration of three towns. Around lunchtime a driver picked him up. The quick trip gave him a good rest. In a vehicle his travel took half the time it normally would on foot. However when the truck began going opposite the way to Castle Rock he was forced to hoof it again. Jerusalem's Lot was a strange community. Not much of a town by the drifter's standards. The young man had been to places like Seattle, New York and Detroit. This little hickville was hardly comparable. Somegow he felt afraid, like something bad happened here. The drifter had this sort of tingle, a chill up his spine, the one that told him danger was bound to show up. His sixth sense that was never wrong.

In the end the drifter found the Shady Rest Motel to be quite ot his liking. The drifter had spent the day watching the housekeeper. He had been hermited away in room #208 since arriving. On the off chance the drifter was recognized. If the drifter's name was old news out here he didnt want to be spotted. It was a thin paranoia but enough for him to stay safe. 

His pistol was tucked behind his back. His hand never straying too far from the .45 Auto Pistol. His mind forever calculating escape routes in case of the inevitable.

A knock at the door made him jump a little. The drifter looked over to the bed. On the pillow was another handgun. A dead cop's graverobbed revolver laid out in the open. The drifter rushed over to the revolver. He quickly stashed the stolen revolver between the matress and bedframe. Immediately he spun around. He had a nervous grasp on the handle of his pistol behind his back. Ready at the slightest sign of threat to quickly draw the Colt M1911. No matter how much he shook his aim was sure. The drifter had never missed. He had fired warnings, or shot in order to draw opponents free, but he had a killer's eye. The housekeeper was at the door. The knocking grew more rapid. Impatient. He heard someone yelling threw the wall in front of him. The knock wasnt at his door. It was next door. Room #207 was an unsavoury type. The guy in Room #207 was as rich as he was arrogant with a fancy car and an attitude worth less than the corn in the drifter's shit. 


	3. Chapter 3

The hole was leaking. The stone wall around it was solid but the hole looked like an orifice. A breathing slit that was oozing thick slime. Inside the hole was a glow. The hole itself was only three feet tall, high enough up the wall that one needed a ladder to get to it, it looked maybe a foot or two wide. A membrane enclosed the hole which looked like a thick moldy flap of moist flesh.

The policeman drew his service pistol as soon as he saw it. "What the fuck is that?" Frank Smith yelled in shock. He aimed his handgun at the hole, pointing up at it as he acknowledged it's existence. Kenny Spiegel couldn't help but laugh. The teenager bursted out with a snorting chuckle. Kenny and three friends stood in a half circle behind Frank. It was odd to see a street cop out of uniform. Frank didn't look like any cop Kenny had ever seen. "Betty Miller and a few senoirs went up in that hole. Well nobody else came out. Betty did and she after that..." Kenny let his voice trail off. "Well, after that she just wasn't acting right, y'know, like in the head." he finished. Frank turned around looking skeptically at the children. "I know we thought she was bullshitting too. All this talk about creatures inside that hole, a mess of crap that don't make sense, talking a bout some fucking labyrinth that we couldn't see from our side of the hole. Another world. She called it an Elsewhere or some shit. It sounds fucked up. I know, I know. But she's dead now. And now our Science Teacher went in there, Ms. Farrson, she hadn't come out yet." Kenny said. The shame was thick in his throat. He gulped hard. It felt like a stone in his neck, like swallowing a dry painful golf ball, his eyes burned too. "It's been a week, sir. All of us is real scared for her." Kenny finished. He choked the words out, barely able to hold back his tears.

"You ever shot a gun before kid?" the cop asked. Kenny shook his head. "Any of you youths shot a gun before?" the cop asked. He was louder than before.

All the boys looked around to one another. All of them shook their heads. Frank looked irritated. The off-duty cop holstered his firearm on his riight hip. Frank pulled a pistol from somewhere under his navy blue tracksuit jacket. Probably holstered under his left armpit Kenny assumed. Frank checked the spare pistol for bullets. Frank seemed happy with the pistol which was most likely his personal sidearm. He returned it under his tracksuit jacket and retrieved his revolver. "All of you are going to the station. Go get your bikes and go down there ask for Molly Fitzpatrick. She'll help you out. She nothing special, a desk jockey, but she knows people. Works in the Evidence Locker so she can pull the strings we need. Plus she owes me one. I can't be babysitting anyone when I go up in that fucking shitter pit. Or whatever the fuck it is." the cop said. 

His voice suddenly halted. He was confused like some big question just hit him. "How the fuck do you get in that thing? You mean you guys seen kids fucking stupid enough to crawl in that thing? Why the fuck would anyone do that?" Frank said. Kenny was afraid to tell him. Somehow he found the courage to speak. "Betty said sh-she could h-he-hear th-t-the Hole ta-tal-talking to her. S-s-said it to-told her t-t-to go in." he stuttered. Kenny could barely speak he was too ridden by fear. "All th-the oth-o-other kids said they heard it t-too when s-she was t-t-talking about it. Th-that's why th-they went in to-to-together. They said it wanted to me-ee-m-meet them." Kenny said. He hadn't stuttered since his parents split up. His voice shook with anxiety. Kenny tried to speak again but only made strange noises. "Like something lived in there?" Frank asked. Kenny nodded quickly. He was thankful that Frank believed them.

The other boys left Kenny with Frank while they got the ladder. The silence was comfortable. Frank spent the entire time with his arms crossed. Revolver still in his right hand. His eyes fixed on the Hole. Frank was no longer so arrogant. His expression had changed to a calculating cold glare that was stern with determination. Kenny didn't doubt this cop anymore. When the boys returned Kenny left with them to ride down to the Police Station. Frank set up the ladder then took off his tracksuit jacket. He began up the ladder with a flashlight. Kenny felt worrisome. It may be the last time anyone saw Frank Smith. The street cop had his pistol and revolver both holstered. Kenny watched in horror. Halfway up the mouth of the Hole began opening up for Frank as he ascended. Kenny shot his head forward. He not dare look back as he ran after his friends.

The boys ran out of the abandoned power plant going straight to their bikes in the parking lot. Kenny got on his bicycle panting already.


	4. 1975: Welcome to Knockemstiff

The town of Knockemstiff sat in the middle of nowhere. Despite this the small township was something of infamous among the state. Knockemstiff sat just close enough to Meade, Ohio, that the big-city-folk often spilled over and left more often than stayed. In their travels often tourists would intermingle with the townies. When something happened in Knockemstiff it was never a good thing. The most recent war had rocked the small community. The draft stole men or boys from their homes. Which made their friends and family want to join. The drafting and volunteers caused a lack of men so wives and daughters began a fight at home with their protests. Now what few soldiers had survived the loss in Vietnam had began their journeys home. Yet the buses that came through Knockemstiff arrived less frequent than townsfolk wanted. More over the buses mainly brought newcomers, wayward travellers, or transients who lost their minds out in those jungles.

Many children had given up waiting around the way stations of town. The bus and train stations had became havens for shady types of people. Most of the children began collecting in the Quarry Junction. Technically speaking a place found so far out into the woods, the Quarry Junction, wasn't in town limits anymore. According to local legend the Quarry Junction was an old native american burial ground. There was talk of building another trailer park out there. When the town was incorporated the Mayor at the time leveled the grounds. People said that the Mayor even planted new soil. Since the disturbance bad things always happened out at Quarry Junction. Somehow all the horror stories didn't stop teenagers from partying in the nights.

Greg Harlan was in his mid thirties. The soldier had only returned home a month ago. Greg had expected many things from Uncle Sam when he came back from Vietnam. Out there he had worked as a tunnel rat. Quickly the young soldier was introduced to heroin. That was over ten years ago now. A habit which stuck when Greg went back home. During the war he had lost his hand. He volunteered in 1959. After that he just never came home. Greg spent the past eight months prior to his return in an infirmary back in Saigon. After the loss of his right hand it wasn't long before they told him America had lost the war. Both had hit him hard. The booze back in Saigon was stronger, or maybe it was lowered tolerence due to his inexperiance as a youth, but out here nothing seemed to dull the pain enough. Greg was lucky to still drive. People sometimes looked at him sideways. Whenever someone looked at him funny he showed them the dogtags using his stump. It seemed to have the effect Greg was looking for.

Greg Harlan was many things. He wasn't no creeper. A junkie, yes, perhaps. He drove up to Quarry Junction for sleep and nothing else. When kids started turning up dead out there Greg wasn't suprised. You don't mess with places where the dead are laid to rest. His time in Vietnam had taught him that brutally. He pulled a syringe from his arm, then unwrapped the belt, the stuff hit him hard but he did only enough to get buzzed. Greg had seen too many of his brothers die on this shit to do more than he needed. If he began nodding-out he knew to cut back the next time. Most nights he spent in the back of his pickup truck with his guns and duffle bag.

It was just like any other night. A dazed confusion induced by his drug of choice. He laid with eyes half open, fixed on his old war rifles, a shotgun and a marksman's carbine. Everytime he went in one of them godforsaken tunnels he brought only three things: his M1 Carbine, his .45 revolver and a flashlight. They weren't given good guns either. The tunnel rats got what was leftover from past wars. Greg didn't mind the corpse's armory, so to speak, he had lived through Vietnam and so he got to keep his weapons. He had left with rank of Sergeant, his hand was back in that damned jungle too, now he doubted he could even shoot either rifle or his shotgun. The revolver he could shoot and with enough time, he could even reload the damn thing. He did so every night, before the barrel's end went in his mouth, somehow he found it in him not to pull the trigger.

If he was smart he'd sell the guns, Greg thought with a smile. Greg knew he couldn't ever sell his revolver. The Colt M1917 and the soldier had gone through far too much to part ways with now. Especially considering the revolver was the only of his armament that he could still use. Being one handed had taken more from him than he liked to admit. The drugs helped with that. Eased the sting. Never completely, just dulled the roar a little, and they always ran out. The rifle would be worth 700$ if it weren't in the shape it was in. At a pawn shop maybe Greg could get 500$. Somehow he thought it was a bit of a stretch. The shotgun he could trade for a quick fix if he ever got sick enough. He laid under the sky amazed by the starlight speckling the darkness. 

He was queerly happy; but he assumed that was just the heroin, yonight his high was different. Normally he just felt numb. This shit he had gotten from Oscar on Fifth Street had him rocketeering he was so high. "Ain't no gun in my mouth tonight." he mumbled to himself. A dumb smirk settled on his unshaven face.


End file.
